The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  It gave her moments of secret rapture—moments of believing she might help him indeed. The only mystification in this was the imposing time of life that her elders spoke of as youth. For Sir Claude then Mrs. Beale was “young,” just as for Mrs. Wix Sir Claude was: that was one of the merits for which Mrs. Wix most commended him. What therefore was Maisie herself, and, in another relation to the matter, what therefore was mamma? It took her some time to puzzle out with the aid of an experiment or two that it wouldn’t do to talk about mamma’s youth. She even went so far one day, in the presence of that lady’s thick colour and marked lines, as to wonder if it would occur to any one but herself to do so. Yet if she wasn’t young then she was old; and this threw an odd light on her having a husband of a different generation. Mr. Farange was still older—that Maisie perfectly knew; and it brought her in due course to the perception of how much more, since Mrs. Beale was younger than Sir Claude, papa must be older than Mrs. Beale. Such discoveries were disconcerting and even a trifle confounding: these persons, it appeared, were not of the age they ought to be. This was somehow particularly the case with mamma, and the fact made her reflect with some relief on her not having gone with Mrs. Wix into the question of Sir Claude’s attachment to his wife. She was conscious that in confining their attention to the state of her ladyship’s own affections they had been controlled—Mrs. Wix perhaps in especial—by delicacy and even by embarrassment. The end of her colloquy with her stepfather in the schoolroom was her saying: “Then if we’re not to see Mrs. Beale at all it isn’t what she seemed to think when you came for me.”

  He looked rather blank. “What did she seem to think?”

  “Why that I’ve brought you together.”

  “She thought that?” Sir Claude asked.

  Maisie was surprised at his already forgetting it. “Just as I had brought papa and her. Don’t you remember she said so?”

  It came back to Sir Claude in a peal of laughter. “Oh yes—she said so!”

  “And YOU said so,” Maisie lucidly pursued.

  He recovered, with increasing mirth, the whole occasion. “And YOU said so!” he retorted as if they were playing a game.

  “Then were we all mistaken?”

  He considered a little. “No, on the whole not. I dare say it’s just what you HAVE done. We ARE together—it’s really most odd. She’s thinking of us—of you and me—though we don’t meet. And I’ve no doubt you’ll find it will be all right when you go back to her.”

  “Am I going back to her?” Maisie brought out with a little gasp which was like a sudden clutch of the happy present.

  It appeared to make Sir Claude grave a moment; it might have made him feel the weight of the pledge his action had given. “Oh some day, I suppose! We’ve plenty of time.”

  “I’ve such a tremendous lot to make up,” Maisie said with a sense of great boldness.

  “Certainly, and you must make up every hour of it. Oh I’ll SEE that you do!”

  This was encouraging; and to show cheerfully that she was reassured she replied: “That’s what Mrs. Wix sees too.”

  “Oh yes,” said Sir Claude; “Mrs. Wix and I are shoulder to shoulder.”

  Maisie took in a little this strong image; after which she exclaimed: “Then I’ve done it also to you and her—I’ve brought YOU together!”

  “Blest if you haven’t!” Sir Claude laughed. “And more, upon my word, than any of the lot. Oh you’ve done for US! Now if you could—as I suggested, you know, that day—only manage me and your mother!”

  The child wondered. “Bring you and HER together?”

  “You see we’re not together—not a bit. But I oughtn’t to tell you such things; all the more that you won’t really do it—not you. No, old chap,” the young man continued; “there you’ll break down. But it won’t matter—we’ll rub along. The great thing is that you and I are all right.”

  “WE’RE all right!” Maisie echoed devoutly. But the next moment, in the light of what he had just said, she asked: “How shall I ever leave you?” It was as if she must somehow take care of him.

  His smile did justice to her anxiety. “Oh well, you needn’t! It won’t come to that.”

  “Do you mean that when I do go you’ll go with me?”

  Sir Claude cast about. “Not exactly ‘with’ you perhaps; but I shall never be far off.”

  “But how do you know where mamma may take you?”

  He laughed again. “I don’t, I confess!” Then he had an idea, though something too jocose. “That will be for you to see—that she shan’t take me too far.”

  “How can I help it?” Maisie enquired in surprise. “Mamma doesn’t care for me,” she said very simply. “Not really.” Child as she was, her little long history was in the words; and it was as impossible to contradict her as if she had been venerable.

  Sir Claude’s silence was an admission of this, and still more the tone in which he presently replied: “That won’t prevent her from —some time or other—leaving me with you.”

  “Then we’ll live together?” she eagerly demanded.

  “I’m afraid,” said Sir Claude, smiling, “that that will be Mrs. Beale’s real chance.”

  Her eagerness just slightly dropped at this; she remembered Mrs. Wix’s pronouncement that it was all an extraordinary muddle. “To take me again? Well, can’t you come to see me there?”

  “Oh I dare say!”

  Though there were parts of childhood Maisie had lost she had all childhood’s preference for the particular promise. “Then you WILL come—you’ll come often, won’t you?” she insisted; while at the moment she spoke the door opened for the return of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude hereupon, instead of replying, gave her a look which left her silent and embarrassed.

  When he again found privacy convenient, however—which happened to be long in coming—he took up their conversation very much where it had dropped. “You see, my dear, if I shall be able to go to you at your father’s it yet isn’t at all the same thing for Mrs. Beale to come to you here.” Maisie gave a thoughtful assent to this proposition, though conscious she could scarcely herself say just where the difference would lie. She felt how much her stepfather saved her, as he said with his habitual amusement, the trouble of that. “I shall probably be able to go to Mrs. Beale’s without your mother’s knowing it.”

  Maisie stared with a certain thrill at the dramatic element in this. “And she couldn’t come here without mamma’s—” She was unable to articulate the word for what mamma would do.

  “My dear child, Mrs. Wix would tell of it.”

  “But I thought,” Maisie objected, “that Mrs. Wix and you—”

  “Are such brothers-in-arms?”—Sir Claude caught her up. “Oh yes, about everything but Mrs. Beale. And if you should suggest,” he went on, “that we might somehow or other hide her peeping in from Mrs. Wix—”

  “Oh, I don’t suggest THAT!” Maisie in turn cut him short.

  Sir Claude looked as if he could indeed quite see why. “No; it would really be impossible.” There came to her from this glance at what they might hide the first small glimpse of something in him that she wouldn’t have expected. There had been times when she had had to make the best of the impression that she was herself deceitful; yet she had never concealed anything bigger than a thought. Of course she now concealed this thought of how strange it would be to see HIM hide; and while she was so actively engaged he continued: “Besides, you know, I’m not afraid of your father.”

  “And you are of my mother?”

  “Rather, old man!” Sir Claude returned.

  11

  It must not be supposed that her ladyship’s intermissions were not qualified by demonstrations of another order—triumphal entries and breathless pauses during which she seemed to take of everything in the room, from the state of the ceiling to that of her daughter’s boot-toes, a survey that was rich in intentions. Sometimes she sat down and sometimes she surged about, but her attitude wore equally in either case the grand a
ir of the practical. She found so much to deplore that she left a great deal to expect, and bristled so with calculation that she seemed to scatter remedies and pledges. Her visits were as good as an outfit; her manner, as Mrs. Wix once said, as good as a pair of curtains; but she was a person addicted to extremes—sometimes barely speaking to her child and sometimes pressing this tender shoot to a bosom cut, as Mrs. Wix had also observed, remarkably low. She was always in a fearful hurry, and the lower the bosom was cut the more it was to be gathered she was wanted elsewhere. She usually broke in alone, but sometimes Sir Claude was with her, and during all the earlier period there was nothing on which these appearances had had so delightful a bearing as on the way her ladyship was, as Mrs. Wix expressed it, under the spell. “But ISN’T she under it!” Maisie used in thoughtful but familiar reference to exclaim after Sir Claude had swept mamma away in peals of natural laughter. Not even in the old days of the convulsed ladies had she heard mamma laugh so freely as in these moments of conjugal surrender, to the gaiety of which even a little girl could see she had at last a right—a little girl whose thoughtfulness was now all happy selfish meditation on good omens and future fun.

  Unaccompanied, in subsequent hours, and with an effect of changing to meet a change, Ida took a tone superficially disconcerting and abrupt—the tone of having, at an immense cost, made over everything to Sir Claude and wishing others to know that if everything wasn’t right it was because Sir Claude was so dreadfully vague. “He has made from the first such a row about you,” she said on one occasion to Maisie, “that I’ve told him to do for you himself and try how he likes it—see? I’ve washed my hands of you; I’ve made you over to him; and if you’re discontented it’s on him, please, you’ll come down. So don’t haul poor ME up— I assure you I’ve worries enough.” One of these, visibly, was that the spell rejoiced in by the schoolroom fire was already in danger of breaking; another was that she was finally forced to make no secret of her husband’s unfitness for real responsibilities. The day came indeed when her breathless auditors learnt from her in bewilderment that what ailed him was that he was, alas, simply not serious. Maisie wept on Mrs. Wix’s bosom after hearing that Sir Claude was a butterfly; considering moreover that her governess but half-patched it up in coming out at various moments the next few days with the opinion that it was proper to his “station” to be careless and free. That had been proper to every one’s station that she had yet encountered save poor Mrs. Wix’s own, and the particular merit of Sir Claude had seemed precisely that he was different from every one. She talked with him, however, as time went on, very freely about her mother; being with him, in this relation, wholly without the fear that had kept her silent before her father—the fear of bearing tales and making bad things worse. He appeared to accept the idea that he had taken her over and made her, as he said, his particular lark; he quite agreed also that he was an awful fraud and an idle beast and a sorry dunce. And he never said a word to her against her mother—he only remained dumb and discouraged in the face of her ladyship’s own overtopping earnestness. There were occasions when he even spoke as if he had wrenched his little charge from the arms of a parent who had fought for her tooth and nail.

  This was the very moral of a scene that flashed into vividness one day when the four happened to meet without company in the drawing-room and Maisie found herself clutched to her mother’s breast and passionately sobbed and shrieked over, made the subject of a demonstration evidently sequent to some sharp passage just enacted. The connexion required that while she almost cradled the child in her arms Ida should speak of her as hideously, as fatally estranged, and should rail at Sir Claude as the cruel author of the outrage. “He has taken you FROM me,” she cried; “he has set you AGAINST me, and you’ve been won away and your horrid little mind has been poisoned! You’ve gone over to him, you’ve given yourself up to side against me and hate me. You never open your mouth to me—you know you don’t; and you chatter to him like a dozen magpies. Don’t lie about it—I hear you all over the place. You hang about him in a way that’s barely decent —he can do what he likes with you. Well then, let him, to his heart’s content: he has been in such a hurry to take you that we’ll see if it suits him to keep you. I’m very good to break my heart about it when you’ve no more feeling for me than a clammy little fish!” She suddenly thrust the child away and, as a disgusted admission of failure, sent her flying across the room into the arms of Mrs. Wix, whom at this moment and even in the whirl of her transit Maisie saw, very red, exchange a quick queer look with Sir Claude.

  The impression of the look remained with her, confronting her with such a critical little view of her mother’s explosion that she felt the less ashamed of herself for incurring the reproach with which she had been cast off. Her father had once called her a heartless little beast, and now, though decidedly scared, she was as stiff and cold as if the description had been just. She was not even frightened enough to cry, which would have been a tribute to her mother’s wrongs: she was only, more than anything else, curious about the opinion mutely expressed by their companions. Taking the earliest opportunity to question Mrs. Wix on this subject she elicited the remarkable reply: “Well, my dear, it’s her ladyship’s game, and we must just hold on like grim death.”

  Maisie could interpret at her leisure these ominous words. Her reflexions indeed at this moment thickened apace, and one of them made her sure that her governess had conversations, private, earnest and not infrequent, with her denounced stepfather. She perceived in the light of a second episode that something beyond her knowledge had taken place in the house. The things beyond her knowledge—numerous enough in truth—had not hitherto, she believed, been the things that had been nearest to her: she had even had in the past a small smug conviction that in the domestic labyrinth she always kept the clue. This time too, however, she at last found out—with the discreet aid, it had to be confessed, of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude’s own assistance was abruptly taken from her, for his comment on her ladyship’s game was to start on the spot, quite alone, for Paris, evidently because he wished to show a spirit when accused of bad behaviour. He might be fond of his stepdaughter, Maisie felt, without wishing her to be after all thrust on him in such a way; his absence therefore, it was clear, was a protest against the thrusting. It was while this absence lasted that our young lady finally discovered what had happened in the house to be that her mother was no longer in love. The limit of a passion for Sir Claude had certainly been reached, she judged, some time before the day on which her ladyship burst suddenly into the schoolroom to introduce Mr. Perriam, who, as she announced from the doorway to Maisie, wouldn’t believe his ears that one had a great hoyden of a daughter. Mr. Perriam was short and massive—Mrs. Wix remarked afterwards that he was “too fat for the pace”; and it would have been difficult to say of him whether his head were more bald or his black moustache more bushy. He seemed also to have moustaches over his eyes, which, however, by no means prevented these polished little globes from rolling round the room as if they had been billiard-balls impelled by Ida’s celebrated stroke. Mr. Perriam wore on the hand that pulled his moustache a diamond of dazzling lustre, in consequence of which and of his general weight and mystery our young lady observed on his departure that if he had only had a turban he would have been quite her idea of a heathen Turk.

  “He’s quite my idea,” Mrs. Wix replied, “of a heathen Jew.”

  “Well, I mean,” said Maisie, “of a person who comes from the East.”

  “That’s where he MUST come from,” her governess opined—”he comes from the City.” In a moment she added as if she knew all about him. “He’s one of those people who have lately broken out. He’ll be immensely rich.”

  “On the death of his papa?” the child interestedly enquired.

  “Dear no—nothing hereditary. I mean he has made a mass of money.”

  “How much, do you think?” Maisie demanded.

  Mrs. Wix reflected and sketched it. “Oh many millions.”
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  “A hundred?”

  Mrs. Wix was not sure of the number, but there were enough of them to have seemed to warm up for the time the penury of the schoolroom—to linger there as an afterglow of the hot heavy light Mr. Perriam sensibly shed. This was also, no doubt, on his part, an effect of that enjoyment of life with which, among her elders, Maisie had been in contact from her earliest years—the sign of happy maturity, the old familiar note of overflowing cheer. “How d’ye do, ma’am? How d’ye do, little miss?”—he laughed and nodded at the gaping figures. “She has brought me up for a peep—it’s true I wouldn’t take you on trust. She’s always talking about you, but she’d never produce you; so to-day I challenged her on the spot. Well, you ain’t a myth, my dear—I back down on that,” the visitor went on to Maisie; “nor you either, miss, though you might be, to be sure!’”